


Older than Life

by IndigoDream



Series: What He Is [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blood, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Gods, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Not Beta Read, Violence, canon? does that even exist? not in this house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: Jaskier has a knack for getting himself in trouble, but the trouble never really sticks to him. And anyway, he is luckier than most. He likes arguing with Geralt, loves performing, likes a warm bed even more, but he hates when people attack him for no reason. There is also the little side effect that, whatever trouble gets to him, he can always get himself out of the situation. He lets Geralt help him usually, but this time he has had enough. Plus, it's been years since he allowed himself to be this unhinged. And really, who can blame him?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What He Is [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679437
Comments: 47
Kudos: 1030
Collections: Witcher





	Older than Life

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Whoooops this is my first fic for this fandom. A bit wild, considering I'm still at ep 3 of the series. If you're my roommate, who plays the video games while informing me about the things the TV show did wrong: I'm sorry, pls don't read this, it's (probably) even worse. If you're anyone else, I hope you'll enjoy this! As I said, I haven't completed the whole series yet! But I am trying! Life just keeps getting in the way. So, this is 100% inspired by the fics I've read + the concept of gods as those ferals, really unhinged creatures. But well, some people are into that... 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy the fic! 
> 
> (Also, if there are any mistakes, forgive me, I wrote this all in one rush instead of sleeping)

Jaskier likes traveling with Geralt. It’s not always safe, sure, there are even days when it’s straight up dangerous, but he likes the thrill of the hunt. He likes it less when one of the monsters hurts him or Geralt. It’s equally as upsetting when his clothing gets torn up, whether it be by claw or branch along the way. Well, maybe not equally, but he does hate having to replace them. He likes his clothing enough, damn it, and good fabrics are hard to come by when you're constantly on the road. 

Still, he doesn't complain half as much as he did in the beginning. Complaining gets him nowhere, and he has quickly learnt that Geralt's only answer to his complains are grunts at best, glares in general, and when the witcher really can't stand it, he just lets Roach carry him out of earshot for a few minutes. He has also gotten used to that, so he doesn’t run after the brown mare anymore, simply walks on, sometimes singing, sometimes singing, and most times, shouting after Geralt that he is lucky Jaskier is so patient with him. 

They’ve had their fair share of fights. Geralt might like to pretend he is emotionless and stoic, but he can be nasty if things don’t go his way. Unfortunately for him, Jaskier is not afraid of the mighty, scary witcher persona he puts on, and he is also not afraid to argue. Haggling, arguing, performing, they all take their roots in the same soil: the utter belief that, at the end of the day, you matter more than what you are opposing. Jaskier believes that wholeheartedly. It helps that, unlike many people, he has reason enough to believe that. The only unfortunate thing, Jaskier wants to say, is that Geralt is also extremely convinced of that, but rather than make it unbearable for the both of them, it has strangely enough tied them closely together. 

The inn they walk in that night is pretty crowded, but Jaskier knows there will be a room for them. There always is a room for him and his Witcher, no matter how crowded it is. He has a sort of… sense for those things. 

“Two rooms,” Geralt asks, like that fantasy will ever come true. 

“Only one available, witcher,” the owner answers, a bit shifty in a way Jaskier realized a while ago meant fear of the white haired man, “I can have a cot brought up for your bard though, if that pleases you?” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. He eyes the crowd. There are pretty maidens, handsome lads, and all kind of other folks. It might be a good night to sing a few songs. There is also the added benefit that Geralt might pretend to be annoyed when Jaskier sings one of his most popular songs, which always fills Jaskier with glee. The heavy weight of those golden eyes on him as he moves around the room, singing and almost dancing, it never fails to make his blood hot. 

“It’ll do,” Geralt grunts. 

“Manners, Geralt,” Jaskier swats at his arm and ignores the glare in favour of turning at the innkeeper. “A cot would be lovely, thank you.” 

“Your bloody manners get us nowhere,” Geralt growls as they move to a blessedly free table. 

“How would you know, have you ever tried them?” Jaskier asks almost sweetly, the honey-coated venom on his tongue just friendly enough to have Geralt relax into his seat. “Or is that one of the great secret of the witchers, politeness never gets you anywhere, especially not to a warm plate and hot bath?” 

Geralt grunts in answer, and Jaskier will counts that as a personal win. “While you do your charming brooding act, I’m going to get us some coin. Order me something for when I come back, will you?” 

The witcher doesn’t answer, so Jaskier claps him on the shoulder and gets up. He knows the moods of his companion well enough now, and he doesn’t have the want for a friendly spat, anyway. Not if he wants to get the bed tonight. Gods, he misses sleeping in comfortable beds every night. He wouldn’t exchange traveling with Geralt for anything in the world, but still. There are some pretty big disadvantages, one of the greatest being the lack of all the comforts Jaskier had been used to. 

The first few songs go well. People know of him, they have some requests, and he gets enough coin for the next two nights at the inn. If Geralt lets them stay here long enough, that is. In any case, he’ll just buy something sweet for the mare. He likes to think Roach likes him, secretly. 

He notices the people in the left corner, not hidden from Geralt completely but far enough that, with the noise and ruckus of the inn, the witcher's overly developed senses might not pick up on unless he focuses on them. They are not rowdy, not bawdy and asking for songs the way other men are in the inn. They do pull the maid serving them down on their laps a few times, despite her clear protests, and the innkeeper’s discomfort when it happens. Jaskier is good at noticing things like that. It doesn’t mean he likes seeing it happen. 

“Gentlemen!” He calls out cheerily after finishing a round of Her Sweet Kiss at the request of a teenage girl there with her family, “May I sing something for you tonight? Anything you request, I’ll be more than pleased to sing it!” 

The serving girl profits of his interruption to skip tables quickly. The men glares at Jaskier, but he only smiles again, his most innocent, sunny smile. The one Geralt once told him looked like he was an idiot being played for a fool. Now that he thinks of it, the description makes very little sense, but that’s just Geralt trying to emote, so he won’t say anything. 

“Piss off, bard,” growls one of the men, “We don’t need you to sing us fucking ballads.” 

Jaskier bows pleasantly and smiles again. “Of course gentlemen, but don’t hesitate to call on me. I’m at your service.” 

He moves backwards, sings Toss A Coin To Your Witcher, for the pleasure of feeling those burning golden eyes on his back. He keeps singing, not yet exhausted of the day. He always loves singing anyway, loves performing. Would he like it better to perform at the court of Kings and Queens, in front of prestigious audiences? Sure. He isn’t too picky though, a crowd is a crowd, and a coin is a coin. As long as they go to bed fed and warm enough, he’ll call it a success. 

The men at the table have pulled the teenage girl on their lap, and Jaskier watches her father, terrified, say nothing. So again, he moves forward and surprises the men. 

“Miss, I need a partner for this next one, would you mind coming along with me?” His hand grasps her, and he pulls her to him, too fast for the other man to react. Everyone always underestimates his strength anyway, and he likes taking advantage of that fact. He turns back to the girl with a reassuring smile, making sure to keep some distance with her to calm her down. “I’m sure you have the loveliest voice, and you will definitely know the song anyway.” 

He gives her the tune and she brightens up a little, singing quite shyly at first, but Jaskier sings with her and it reassures her. She does have a lovely voice, not quite away enough from childhood to be breaking yet on the high notes. Her little sister joins in on the fun, and Jaskier is reminded of Ciri, who was a hit with the children when she traveled with Geralt and Jaskier. 

He turns his eyes to Geralt, who seems more relaxed. Ten years have passed since Ciri was last there with them, and sometimes, her absence is a hole in Jaskier’s chest, who loved the girl like his own daughter, but she is a queen now, with responsibilities and all of that. They should visit her soon, Jaskier thinks, and Geralt nods slightly, almost as if he knows exactly what his friend has been thinking of. 

The song ends, and the two girls go back to their parents. Jaskier smiles again at the teenager, who smiles back shyly, gratitude shining in her eyes. He knows a thing or two about human monsters, so he only nods. 

He finishes his last song, and sits back down with Geralt after a round of applause. 

“Tell me, what went wrong this time,” he asks with a smile after drinking half his ale. “Let me guess, was it that I moved too much? No, it must have been not enough, right?” 

It’s an exercise they are used to, something to drag words out of Geralt’s mouth. 

“You did well,” Geralt surprises him, “with those girls.” 

Geralt almost looks like he is going to say more, but he only nods and crosses his arms. Enough talk for him tonight then, Jaskier guesses, and can’t stop the fond look he sends his witcher. A man of few words, but there is always a deep emotion underneath. 

“Thank you, Geralt. It made me think of—“ he is interrupted when a heavy hand settles on his shoulder. 

He stiffens a bit, and Geralt’s hand tightens into a fist. Jaskier looks up, sees the innkeeper trying to smile, but his eyes are scared. 

“The gentlemen,” he indicates the table Jaskier defied twice, “are asking to speak with you, mister bard.” 

Jaskier swiftly stands up, the innkeeper’s hand falling off his shoulder quickly. He isn’t too fond of non-necessary physical contacts with strangers, unless it’s for pleasure. He also doesn’t really want to leave his meal just yet, not when he has just started it. The travel here and the performance have opened his appetite and he is ravenous. 

“I’ll be right back,” he tells a stiff Geralt who is now openly looking at the table who demanded Jaskier’s attention. “Don’t you move from here and take the bed from under my nose, or I’ll be very cross with you.” 

Empty threats and fake cheeriness left behind, Jaskier walks to the men, smiling as pleasantly as he can. “Gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed the performance?” 

“You better be out of here,” growls the same man from earlier. The leader then. “We don’t want none of your kind here, bard, and you’ve made us lose our girls twice tonight, so you better fuck off right now.” 

_His kind._ Jaskier understands the implication underneath the words. Bards are fanciful, playful, but what they aren’t is discreet, Jaskier least of all. He has a reputation throughout the continent: a womanizer who will fall into bed with any woman he meets, a bastard son of a whore who learned everything from his mother. There are even less savoury things that are said: he beds men as well as women, has no shame in it, and doesn’t care that most people frown upon it. Neither are wrong; Jaskier does sleep with women and men, sometimes both at the same time if the occasion presents itself, and no, he doesn’t care about it. 

“I’m sure you don’t want it,” he smiles pleasingly again. If only they knew what his /kind/ really is, this situation would be laughable. “But I am here to enjoy a night of reprieve after travelling. I’m sorry you did not find my performance to your taste, but that says more about you than about me, gentlemen. Now, if you excuse me, I have a meal to get back to.” 

He is turning when a hand grabs him, and suddenly a knife is pressed against his throat. Geralt is out of his seat, a hand on one of his sword, but Jaskier shakes his head. He can handle this on his own. 

“You better get the fuck out, whore,” the man grits in his ear, “or we’ll take care of it on our own.” 

“Such a lovely offer,” Jaskier chuckles and the knife presses closer, “However, I must again refuse.” His hand closes over the man’s, his fingers slowly crushing those underneath him. “My meal is extremely important to me.” 

The man shouts in pain and drops the knife. Jaskier bends down, picks up the knife, and smiles again. It’s not pleasant anymore, the tavern has gone quiet, and he can feel Geralt’s eyes on him. 

“You seem to have dropped this.” He plants the knife in the table, satisfaction running through him as it goes halfway through it. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.” 

He walks back to his table and sits across from Geralt with a real smile. “Lovely fellows.” He eats without waiting for an answer, but Geralt wouldn’t have given him one anyway. The witcher is too busy staring at his companion, analyzing him and wondering how he has missed this in all of their travels. 

Jaskier doesn’t get the bed when they arrive in the room. He groans, argues a bit, but he doesn’t really want to argue more than it. He is tired at this point, and if he gets his blanket out of Roach’s bags, the floor will be more than good enough. 

“You’re a right bastard,” he tells Geralt, shaking his head, but his tone is fond. “Next time there is a bed, it’s mine, you hear?” 

He closes the door behind him, whistles as he walks down the hallway and out of the front door, to the stables where Geralt had lovingly put Roach. The witcher and his horse, really. 

A hit in the jaw startles him and sends him against the stone wall of the inn. 

“What the—“ he doesn’t have time to finish, another hit is heading for his head and he quickly ducks. There is a satisfying noise as his attacker’s hand crashes against the wall, and the cascade of swear words is as pleasing to Jaskier. 

He looks up to see the four men from earlier, and he sighs deeply. Of course they are back here. Why wouldn’t they be?

“You bastard,” growls one of them, not the leader, “We don’t need a fucking bitch like you around.” 

“As I told you,” Jaskier can’t help but answer, sidestepping a hit to the jaw again. Gods they are slow. “I’m leaving town soon. Patience isn’t too bad, you must have realized that as you were waiting for me. How long did you even wait, by the way? There was no way you could have known I would have gotten back out. It’s almost admirable, really. Can’t you apply that patience and faith to something else, like waiting for me to leave town?” 

He gets hit a couple of times, avoids some others, but he doesn’t stop speaking. Maybe he should listen to Geralt, he thinks idly as a punch hits him in the throat, knocking the wind out of him. Fuck, this hurts. 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Unfortunately,” he winces at the sound of his own ragged voice, “I’ve been told many times that I’m unable to do that.” 

A boot makes contact with his knee, but he doesn’t fall down just yet. 

“We’re going to end you, and you’ll get to see your whore of a mother in the afterlife.” A dagger appears in front of Jaskier and he groans. Can he just catch a break? The whole of Creation forgives him, but he is really going to have to defend himself properly this time. “You’re just good at sucking cock, you whore.” 

Honestly, at this point, Jaskier has had enough of them. So when he hears the door of the inn creak, he doesn’t really register it, because he is halfway through grabbing the knife, the blade not even slicing the skin of his palm. He’s had enough of playing humanity. 

“Listen up,” he growls out, power flooding his vein. It feels good to awaken his nature again, after so many years dormant. “You either leave now, or I will cut you up to little pieces and feed you to the dogs on my way out in the morning.” 

“What the fuck,” the knife-holder says, but he doesn’t give up on his objective and tries to stab Jaskier again. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice. “Back off!” To the men. A sword slides off, just one. Jaskier can almost taste the metal, the way steel has been forged into this beautiful blade, made for Jaskier’s witcher. It fits into Geralt’s palm perfectly, and it would be so easy to let Geralt disband the men, scare them off or kill them… But Jaskier’s blood is boiling. He doesn’t _need_ to kill, but he is angry now. He is angry enough to power him through a lifetime. 

“My fight,” he snaps at his companion, and the golden eyes look surprised. 

Jaskier can feel his teeth, sharp and longer than usual, and he is reigning in his true form. He isn’t sure it wouldn’t kill Geralt as well, if he were to shed mortal layers and reveals the god underneath. Geralt isn’t quite human either, but Jaskier won’t take that chance. 

Rather, Jaskier turns back to the men, and he grins. Their fear is palpable now, and he likes it. He enjoys it, as sick as it is. It’s satisfying, pleasurable almost. He grabs the hand holding the knife and pushes it deep into his own chest with a grin, but nothing happens. Unhinged is a nice way to describe him as the knife doesn’t find anything to hold onto, and the man screeches, almost like an animal. Jaskier grabs his throat, crushes it slightly under his fingers, and tosses the man away. He won’t ever speak again, if he doesn’t die from his injuries. Jaskier doesn’t care either way. 

The three other men, counting the leader, are backing away, terror plain on their face. Jaskier doesn’t really want to play cat and mouse tonight, so he simply swats at the closest one, and the man hits the wall so harshly his skull opens slightly and blood gushes from the open wound. The next one, Jaskier is more careful. He simply throws the dagger from the first one into his back. His aim is slightly off, because the knife lodges itself in the back of his skull, rather than his shoulders the way Jaskier had thought it would. He shrugs it off, runs to the leader and catches up with him in three long, inhuman strides. 

“Enjoying the evening,” he asks, almost pleasant as he reveals his teeth in his smile. “The night’s pretty nice, isn’t it?” 

He grabs the man’s already crushed hand and tightens his hold on it, until all the bones seem to melt. The leader doesn’t scream, even though his face contorts in pain. The shatter of the bones, the way they rearrange themselves under his grip… Jaskier has felt this in almost two hundred years. 

“You won’t touch any other girl now,” he tells to the enchanted man, who falls to his knees suddenly. “You’ll barely be able to touch yourself, you pathetic excuse of a man.” 

Jaskier is done with all this, so he turns back to Geralt and sighs. His friend has his silver blade drawn out, pointed to Jaskier. At least he waited until Jaskier had his revenge, that must count for something. 

“You know that won’t do anything to me, right?” 

Geralt only grunts, and when he throws himself at Jaskier, there is no surprise for the bard. He grabs the silver blade, though, and then looks at Geralt again. He can feel his blood cooling down, can feel his divinity retreat back to the lull of his everyday. 

“Convinced yet?” 

Geralt staggers backwards. “What are you?” 

“I would love to explain that to you, my dear witcher, but right now we need to leave. Go get my lute, will you? I left it in the room. And you don’t have your potions anyway. Shoo, I’ll get Roach.” 

Perhaps Geralt really does trust him, even after this, because the witcher does what he is asked. He’s probably in shock, Jaskier sighs a bit to himself as he gets Roach. 

“Your master’s skull is tougher than any rocks, did you know?” He talks to the mare as if to another human, and she follows him out of the stable without a protest. The gods are clearly looking out for him, because the last time this happened, Jaskier had Geralt’s blood on his fingers and he’s pretty sure Roach only followed him because she sensed her master’s need of help. 

He walks her outside of the stable. Geralt is already back, and he has Jaskier’s lute in one hand, though he looks at it strangely. 

“You are aware it is just a lute right? Nothing more common than a lute for a bard. Oh, don’t give me that look,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Your horse is safe, she doesn’t have a scratch, and I’m sure she is more than excited to see you again. Now, get on top of her, do your brooding witcher thing, and when we are at a reasonable distance, I’ll explain.” 

“What are you,” Geralt growls again as he gracefully gets himself on Roach’s back. Is there anything the man does that doesn’t have a deadly attractive strangeness to it, or is Jaskier the only one weak to it? 

“You really don’t listen to a word I say, do you? Later.” 

He is fully ready to run besides Roach as she carries her rider to safety. Geralt is already aware that he isn’t human anyway, so him running at the speed of a galloping horse wouldn’t necessarily surprise the witcher, he hopes. Geralt seems to have decided otherwise though. Wrapping a strong arm around Jaskier’s torso, he lifts him and settles him in front of him, tightly pressed against himself. Now, under any other circumstances, Jaskier would love the position. He has been dying to know what Geralt’s rock hard body feels like for the last… fifty years? He has lost count of time at this point, but time doesn’t affect him anyway, so he is more than allowed to forget it. 

“Faster,” Geralt grunts, but Jaskier can tell that there is also that slight wonder, that slight questioning that makes Geralt want to keep him close, analyze his every move. 

Roach starts at a nice trot, but as soon as they leave the town, she is galloping, and Jaskier quietly transfers her some energy. She won’t get tired from carrying two people at once that way. He lets himself relax in Geralt’s arms, despite the other man tensing. He is tired after his outburst, and he’ll take any rest he is given. 

He isn’t awaken as much as left to fall to the ground. 

“Geralt, you wound me,” he whines. “I thought we were friends.” 

“What are you.” Geralt repeats his earlier question, his eyes glowing in the moonlight that reaches them, despite the forest they are in. 

“Gods, you are a persistent one aren’t you?” Jaskier sighs and gathers some wood to avoid looking at Geralt. “Get yourself settled, I’ll start the fire.” 

“You have never done that before.” His voice isn’t quite harsh, but it’s sharp, and Jaskier tries to not feel the pain from that. He has hidden this for long enough that now the truth is painful. 

“Oh, trust me. I have lightened more fires than you ever have.” 

The wood is quickly gathered. What he wants, he obtains easily enough. He piles it carefully, and closes his eyes, letting his blood boil. He doesn’t focus on the anger; this time, he thinks of Geralt’s warm hands, of the way his gaze feels on him when he sings. He thinks to the half smiles, the relaxed shoulders, the trust that had built between them. When he breathes out, the sparks of embers catches on the wood, and in a few minutes, a fire roars for them. 

It warms him to his core, and he is keeping his eyes closed for now. He doesn’t need to open them to know Geralt is looking at him in disgust, that his hand is back on his silver sword. He _knows_ Geralt. It’s what makes them such a good duo. 

“You must have known I wasn’t like the other humans,” Jaskier starts, his hands almost getting into the fire. He is freezing now. “I mean, we have known each other for what, fifty years? And I haven’t aged. At this point, I would be for sure too old and fragile to travel with you, if I were human. You knew, didn’t you?” 

He opens his eyes slightly, looks at Geralt. The witcher doesn’t answer anything but Jaskier sees all he needs in the shiftiness of his eyes.

“The gods be forgiven, did you really not notice? Ciri knew all this time! Did you not wonder why she kept saying I looked younger with each passing year? Geralt, how could you not notice I didn’t age?” 

“I … didn’t pay attention.” The swift reply is quickly buried under Jaskier’s incessant chattering. 

“Even Yennefer noticed! She kept it to herself though, I don’t know. I should swing by her place and ask her, at some point. Might be our next destination, well. My next destination.” He chuckles a bit sadly. The reality of the situation catching up with him.

“Get to the point bard,” orders Geralt. 

“I was waiting for you to… ask me about it, you know? I thought you were being polite, or like, I don’t know, I thought you had figured it out on your own and didn’t want to say anything! You are always saying you can smell things on people, especially if they aren’t people, and I certainly—“ 

“The point, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier hates that he finds it attractive.

“I wasn’t about to come up to you and say “hey Geralt, so I’m a god, what are we hunting today”! That would have been completely weird, and frankly, how does one even goes about mentioning it, it’s insane, I should really find a smoother way to announce it from now on.” 

“ A god.” Geralt interrupts again. “Not a monster.” 

“Didn’t you see your silver being useless? You want to try again? I’m not a monster Geralt. You don’t have to hunt me and kill me. You… You couldn’t anyway. Some already tried, a few hundred years ago or so. Barely left a scratch.” 

Geralt moves, almost too quickly for Jaskier to follow his movement, and then he is on Jaskier, his silver sword against his neck. His teeth are almost bared, and there is the White Wolf Jaskier has sung about so many times. Here is the witcher he has fallen in love with. Despite the menace to his being, Jaskier sighs. This is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. 

“Try it out for yourself then,” he extends his arms on the ground of the forest, can feel the leaves underneath his palms. “I won’t fight back at all, okay? Just… drive it through me. Wherever you want. Though, if you could avoid the head, that always feels weird.” 

He closes his eyes, waits for the sword to fall on him. The silver blade lifts from his throat. He waits. 

A thunk makes him look again. The heavy weight of Geralt is still on him, imposing, delightful in its own way, but Jaskier is more focused on the silver sword that has been thrown away from them. 

“What—“ he begins to ask, but Geralt puts his hand on his mouth. 

“Stop fucking talking for five minutes,” he growls, and this time Jaskier can’t ignore the shiver that runs through him at the low tone of his witcher. “You are so fucking annoying, how does one like you even manage to be a fucking god? Don’t answer, I don’t care. You killed those men back there.” 

“They deserved it,” Jaskier mumbles against Geralt’s hand, and there is an interesting glint in the witcher’s eyes.

“Maybe,” Geralt says, “But I don’t kill humans. If you stay with me… No killings.” 

Jaskier is too shocked by the rapid acceptance that Geralt is offering to say anything. His mouth goes slack, his eyes wide, and he must look like a proper idiot, because his companion rolls his eyes. 

“You are an idiot, but you are also apparently a fucking god. I’m not stupid. I couldn’t stop you if I wanted, but that’s my only rule. No human killings. It’s going to fall back on me otherwise, understood?” 

Jaskier realizes what this is about suddenly, and sadness grips him. It has been so long since anyone called Geralt a Butcher. Jaskier might just have threatened that. He nods and Geralt lets go of his mouth, but doesn’t move away. 

“I won’t. Not again.” 

“Next time, you let me deal with it,” Geralt says, and Jaskier nods again. 

The weight of Geralt on top of him is… excruciating. Jaskier loves it, loves it as much as he hates it. When Geralt is going to move away, Jaskier will miss that feeling, of being crushed under this man. He adores how tiny, how sumptuously light and unimportant he feels as Geralt pines him down. If he felt like it, he would throw the witcher away from atop himself in just a snap. But he basks in this feeling for now. And really, who could blame him? He has been desiring Geralt of Rivia for over half a human lifetime. He has taken comfort in the bodies of strangers, but he knows that Geralt is the one who has ensnared him for now. He only wants him, the burning desire in his chest almost too much some days. He knows some of his people would say to use his powers to have Geralt, but Jaskier will never. He likes willingness, and he doesn’t want to have that false eagerness. He doesn’t want to break Geralt like that. He loves the witcher, more than he should. 

“Stop thinking,” Geralt growls, impossibly closer.

“Would you rather I talk? Because you have made your point fairly clear that I do that too much and—“ 

The rest of his words are swallowed by Geralt’s mouth on his. It’s an intoxicating feeling, and Jaskier shivers. Geralt still traps him underneath him, and there is a tug on his lips when the witcher feels him shiver. 

Jaskier lets him take, and take, and take, until their lips are sore and their breaths shallow. 

“What..” 

“You couldn’t have said something sooner,” Geralt growls again and pulls on his hair, punishing. “I thought you were going to fucking die on me.” 

Jaskier looks at him, stunned. The slight pain he felt is nothing compared to the pleasure coursing through him. He likes this Geralt, angry and punishing and wanting. And he likes it even more because he is the one making Geralt like this. 

Then, he understands the words Geralt has spoken. He understands, and he laughs, laughs until there is no more air in his lungs, and Geralt’s mouth is busy marking his neck. 

So yes. Jaskier likes travelling with Geralt. He might even say he loves it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it, let me know in the comments, or with kudos! Comments are highly appreciated, I cherish them and answer everyone, but I also love kudos so do whatever makes you comfortable!


End file.
